


ensoleiller

by besselfcn



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest, dubcon is louis/philippe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28441911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: The King asks; Philippe complies; the Chevalier picks up the pieces.
Relationships: Chevalier de Lorraine/Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015), Louis XIV/Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	ensoleiller

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doomcountry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcountry/gifts).



> none of us thought i would be writing fanfiction about the fucking Sun King but 2020 has done something to us all

It is in these moments--not plotting in dark corners, not attending private meetings in the gardens of Paris, not trading in silks and powders--when the Chevalier de Lorraine truly gives himself over to blasphemy against the King. 

It is in these moments where the doors swing ajar and Philippe walks through. Limps, stumbles. Takes every step with his head held high but his feet placed gingerly, as if on beds of nails. Lipstick smudged, white-painted face a ruin. Evening gown torn. The impression of fingers across his delicate throat. 

The Chevalier swallows the words he wants to say; they are not fit for the court. 

Instead he plasters on a crooked smile and says, “He could at least have the decency not to make such a mess of things.”

Philippe laughs like it is torn from him. The Chevalier lifts himself from the bed and crosses the rest of the room towards him; he looks worse even than he did at a distance, a hollow expression on his face that he rarely wears except returning from war. He pulls Philippe in, hiding that face in his shoulder; Philippe either does not or cannot resist. 

Over Philippe’s shoulder, Chevalier motions for someone to draw a bath. 

“We’ll get you cleaned up,” he promises, and Philippe’s fingers tighten around his shoulders. 

He has undressed Philippe a thousand times; he has undressed Philippe after an evening with Louis perhaps a handful. Often Philippe comes to him already scrubbed clean of all but the dark circles under his eyes and the bitterness in his mouth; asking to be fucked until he cannot think anymore of his brother, or otherwise crawling into bed exhausted and begging only for a quiet night’s sleep. Sometimes he comes directly from Louis’s chambers with a sour expression on his face and washes his mouth with wine and laughter until they both fall asleep. 

Rarely, he comes to him like this. Too tired or too lonely to clean himself up. Too ashamed to ask servants to do it for him. 

The Chevalier peels his clothes away in layers, and he hates the King. 

He hates him when he sees the torn hem of Philippe’s dress--a beautiful one he’d had commissioned only months ago, wore tonight for a raucous banquet to show off the gems set in the waist. He hates him when he finds the stitching ripped out of the bodice by careless, angry hands. He hates him when he pulls away Philippe’s tights with the seams destroyed and the silk stained with blood. 

He hates him most when Philippe catches him staring at the ruined clothes and shrugs and says, “He said to pretend to put up a fight.”

He wonders sometimes if the hatred thundering in his chest is loud enough that Louis can hear it, all the way across the palace. The rest of the time, he thinks it unlikely that Louis can hear anything at all if it is not applause. 

The Chevalier presses a kiss into Philippe’s forehead to stop anger from burning his mouth. It tastes like wetted chalk. 

He helps Philippe into the bath; he pretends not to see the fluid that drips down the inside of his thighs when he moves. _It would be heresy_ , Philippe told him once, with his teeth grinding in the back of his jaw, _to waste the King’s seed._

He washes Philippe’s face with a damp cloth; he peels away the make-up, the sweat, the blood that gathers on his mouth. Philippe is silent. Immobile.

Perhaps that is the worst thing of all of it. He thinks he could handle it substantially better if Philippe raged. If he screamed. If even he cried, a collapsing, shuddering thing, bent under the weight of it all. But he never does. 

The thing he seems to be, more than anything else, is tired. The Chevalier has known Philippe since _le Petit Monsieur_ was eighteen. He thinks it likely the man has been tired for a great deal longer than that. 

“Let me see your hands,” he says. Philippe lifts them; the Chevalier washes them carefully, digging out flecks of dirt and blood from under the nail. 

Philippe wakes up out of himself more the longer he soaks in the salted, scented water. He leans forward while the Chevalier washes his back, bracing himself against his knees. And he breathes--not shivering breaths of a man in shock, but slow, steadying ones. 

“He shouldn’t do this to you,” the Chevalier whispers, before he can stop himself. The bruises on Philippe’s shoulder are beginning to form a thumb and fingers. 

Philippe curls himself tighter. “He is the King,” he murmurs, “and we are his loyal subjects.”

And this is where the argument always goes. The great sinkhole into which any chance to reason with Philippe is lost and drowned forever. _You are his brother. He is the King. You could refuse him. He is the King. You could cut off his fucking cock next time he tries and half this palace would not blame you. He is the King, he is the King, he is the King._

The Chevalier scrubs as much of the King from Philippe as he can without tearing away the skin. 

There is a nightgown waiting for Philippe when the bath is over. Something soft and warm to crawl into. Philippe pulls it on over his head and looks suddenly very small. 

They crawl into bed -- Philippe’s bed, with the sheets piled high and the pillows stuffed with soft down feathers. Philippe turns away to stare at the wall -- his shoulders tense, his spine tight. As if the Chevalier would ask anything of him right now. 

He wraps an arm around Philippe’s waist and pulls him in, until his mouth is pressed to Philippe’s shoulder. His lips overlap the faint impression of teeth. 

Philippe exhales like blowing out a flame, and falls asleep. 


End file.
